MidReal Story
Whispers of the Departed
Scenario: Female mortician who can speak to the dead
Create my version of this story
Thomas Reed
detective working closely with Emily, colleague and confidant of Emily, tall with greying hair, skeptical yet openminded.
Sarah Jennings
local historian assisting Emily and Thomas, friends with Emily, curly red hair, curious and insightful.
Emily Carter
mortician with a unique gift, friends with local police, short black hair, analytical and compassionate.
I was in the middle of preparing a body when I heard the voice.
It was a woman’s voice, and she was calling my name.
I looked around the room, but I was alone.
I turned back to the body on the table and continued my work.
The voice called out again, this time with more urgency.
I looked at the woman on the table in front of me.
She had been murdered, and her killer was still out there.
The police had no leads, and it was up to me to find them.
I leaned in closer to her face and whispered, “Can you hear me?”
The voice said, “You have to help me.”
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room again.
The voice had come from the woman on the table, but her lips hadn’t moved.
I leaned in closer to her face and asked, “Can you hear me?”
The voice said, “You have to help me.”
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room again.
The room was quiet except for the sound of the rain against the window.
I sat down in front of the woman on the table and looked at her face.
It was a familiar face, one that I had seen before, but I couldn’t place where.
The woman had been murdered, and her killer was still out there.
The police had no leads, and it was up to me to find them.
I leaned in closer to her face and whispered, “Can you hear me?”
The voice said, “You have to help me.”
I sat back in my chair and looked around the room again.
The voice had come from the woman on the table, but her lips hadn’t moved.
I stood up and walked around the table, looking at the woman from all angles.
Her eyes were closed, and her skin was pale.
She looked like she was sleeping.
I reached out and touched her hand, but it was cold to the touch.
I sighed and walked over to the sink to wash my hands.
I’ve always been very careful when preparing bodies for funerals.
Some people might think it’s a morbid profession, but I see it as one final act of kindness that I can do for the deceased.
It’s my job to make sure they look their best for their loved ones one last time.
Today was a particularly somber day, and not just because it was raining outside.
As I stood in my dimly lit embalming room, I couldn’t help but think about the woman on the table in front of me.
She had been murdered in cold blood, her life snuffed out far too soon.
It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right.
I walked back over to the table and looked down at her one more time.
She was still so young, with smooth unblemished skin and not a wrinkle in sight.
If it weren’t for the violent end she had met, she might have lived a long and happy life.
I sighed and shook my head, trying to push those thoughts from my mind as I got to work.
I went through my normal routine, first washing her body with a special solution to clean the skin, then injecting her with embalming fluid to preserve her body until the funeral.
As I worked, I talked to her like I always did, telling her stories about her life or whatever else came to mind.
Most of the time, the dead didn’t talk back.
Today was different.
I was sitting in front of the woman on the table when I heard it again.
This time the voice was louder, more insistent.
It sounded like it was coming from right behind me.
I jumped up from my chair and turned around.
But just like before, the room was empty.
I walked around the table to get a better look at the woman’s face.
Her lips hadn’t moved, but the voice had definitely come from her direction.
My heart was racing as I slowly reached out to touch her hand again.
The voice called out again, this time coming from the woman on the table.
“Can you hear me?”
It sounded like she was talking through a thick curtain of fog or water.
I clutched my chest as I stumbled back away from the table.
“I must be losing my mind,” I mumbled to myself as I gripped the edge of the table to keep myself from falling over.
The woman on the table said something else, but it was so quiet that I could barely make it out over the sound of my own racing heart.
“This isn’t right.”
That’s what it sounded like she said at least.
I leaned in closer to listen to her next words, not sure if they were real or just a figment of my imagination.
But they were real enough that they stopped me in my tracks as soon as they registered in my brain: “I’m not supposed to be here like this.”
“I know.” My voice was barely a whisper as I finally spoke out loud to the woman on the table.
“What do you mean, you’re not supposed to be here like this?”
The woman on the table was dead.
There was no way she could be talking to me.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to remind myself that this was impossible.
When I opened them again, she was still lying on the table, just as dead as she had been before.
But now I knew for sure that something wasn’t right.
For a long moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us moving.
Finally, I mustered up the courage to speak again:
“I’m sorry, but how are you talking to me right now?
You shouldn’t be talking to me.”
The woman’s face softened, and she reached out a hand toward me.
She looked so sad, so lost.
She said something again, but it was so quiet that I had to lean in closer to hear what she was saying.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was full of desperation.
“I shouldn’t be here like this.
I shouldn’t be on your table.”
I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
“Of course you’re supposed to be here.
This is where we bring people when they die.”
She shook her head, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.
“No,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not my time.”
I shook my head, looking around the room for any sign of someone else who might have spoken those words instead of the woman lying on my embalming table.
“I don’t understand,” I said finally.
“You’re dead.
You were murdered.” The words felt strange on my tongue, but they were true.
The woman nodded, a fresh wave of tears running down her cheeks.
“I know,” she whispered.
“But it’s not supposed to happen like this.”
“What do you mean, you’re not supposed to be here?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I don’t know how I got here.
I was supposed to be somewhere else.” She shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts.
“Where was I supposed to be?”
I asked gently, my heart breaking for the woman who lay dead before me.
“I don’t know,” she said again.
“I don’t know.I just know it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I stared at her for a long moment, trying to make sense of her words.
There was no way she could be alive; there was no way she could be talking to me.
But I knew what I had heard.
Her voice was real, even if the rest of her couldn’t be.
Finally, I took a deep breath and sat down next to the table, my hand resting on top of the woman’s cold, still hand.
“Can you tell me your name?”
The woman’s mouth twisted into a sad smile.
“Tara,” she said softly.
“My name is Tara.”“Nice to meet you, Tara,” I said gently.
“I’m Emily.” I paused for a moment, not sure if I should keep speaking.
“But.Tara, you do realize that you’re dead, right?That you can’t be anywhere else?
That this is the only place you can be?”
Tara nodded, fresh tears running down her cheeks.
“But that’s not how my story is supposed to end,” she whispered.
“It’s not supposed to end like this.”
I reached out and took her hand in mine, squeezing it gently.
“What do you remember last?Can you tell me that?”
Tara shook her head, squeezing my hand back with more force than I would have thought possible.
“I don’t know,” she said softly.
“I don’t know.I just know that this isn’t right.I shouldn’t be here like this.”
And then she fell silent again, staring up at the ceiling as if lost in her own thoughts.
For a long moment, I just sat there, watching her as she lay so still and so silent on my embalming table.
It was so strange, being able to talk to someone as I worked on their body.
It didn’t happen often, but sometimes the families of the deceased were there with me, watching as I prepared the body.
Sometimes they would talk to their loved one, saying their goodbyes in the way they knew how.
But it had never happened quite like this before.
The woman who called herself Tara didn’t look much older than me.
A little younger, maybe, but not by much.
She had short blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and she was wearing a simple white cotton dress that looked like something you might wear on a summer day.
She looked so peaceful lying there on my table, so still and so serene.
She looked like she might wake up at any moment, as if she were only sleeping.
But she wasn’t sleeping.
I had made sure of that.
This was the first time I had ever seen her, but I knew her story.
The police had found her body in a dumpster a few blocks away from my funeral home.
She had been murdered, strangled to death by person or persons unknown.